


Homecoming

by takethisnight_wrapitaroundme



Category: Mario (2018)
Genre: Alternate Ending, Angst, Coming Out, Football | Soccer, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, I couldn't not you guys, I just want them to have a little happiness. As a treat., M/M, Reunions, i had to write it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-29
Updated: 2020-01-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:00:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22457638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/takethisnight_wrapitaroundme/pseuds/takethisnight_wrapitaroundme
Summary: He thinks of Leon every time he scores, even after all these years and hundreds of goals.
Relationships: Mario Lüthi/Leon Saldo
Comments: 15
Kudos: 48





	Homecoming

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place as if the scene where Mario visits Leon at the end of the movie had never happened.

* * *

Mario thinks of Leon every time he scores. The way they used to crash into each other when they were kids, high on their own skill, and euphoric at not having to worry about who saw them embrace. No one looked twice or muttered under their breath about men hugging if it was for sport, so they took every opportunity offered. Looking back, they probably made it too obvious. But Mario holds onto each memory dearly, knowing they're all he will ever have. He closes his eyes when he scores sometimes, even to this day, and imagines the teammates surrounding him and holding him are Leon. It's the closest he gets to feeling happy.

They always ask him on the press panels afterwards: _What were you thinking when you scored? When you won the match? When you got the gold?_

He never says the truth. He never names Leon.

Instead, he talks about taking the opportunities his teammates were able to give him, scoring only because of their hard work to get the ball to him. He talks about learning from his coach to hone his aim and tighten up his footwork. He talks about making his parents proud, and honoring something bigger than himself—his team, his club, his city, his nation.

It's all true. It is. But it's not enough of the truth.

And one day, he just can't take it anymore.

Two years ago, he gave Switzerland their first Olympic gold for football in history. And today, he gave them their first World Cup trophy. He gave his little country a real place on the world stage, making it more than just the home of exports, and he feels pride and victory running hot in his veins as the cameras flash around him. If he could do all that, win all that, surely he can do anything.

Or perhaps it's not the victory that has pushed him to this point, but the undercurrent of desperation running in the background of it all—because even winning the World Cup has not brought him that same peace, that same joy he used to feel when he scored goals as a kid. When his teammates mobbed him just this afternoon as he scored and brought them ahead, he tried to find solace in their embraces, but it didn't work, because none of them felt right. None of them felt like Leon had, all those years ago. Even the win doesn't feel as good as it should, because Leon isn't there celebrating beside him. He isn't even in the stands. Mario hasn't seen him or spoken to him in ten years, not since he walked out of their apartment without even a single look back. No calls, no letters, nothing.

So as he's sitting at the press panel, having just won the World Cup for the first time in his country's history, and some idiot reporter asks him that damn question again, he can't hold it in anymore.

_What were you thinking when you scored that winning goal, Mario?_

He opens his mouth to give the rote, practiced response.

 _I was thinking of my family, who have always supported me. I was thinking of my father, who's done so much to get me here. I was thinking of Thun, and how they raised me up to send me away, never thinking for a second that I'd be able to come back and win for them. I was thinking of my country, and all it's given me, and I was honored to be able to give this back. I was thinking of growing up and watching everyone else win but us. So I won for_ us _._

But he doesn't say any of it. Instead he opens his mouth and what comes out is a mix of so many of his dreams and his nightmares that it hardly feels real. It's just happening, uncontrollably, as if his body has finally revolted after so many years of oppression.

"When I scored that goal, I was thinking of an old friend. Leon. Well—" He smiles briefly at all the earnest faces watching him, not in on the joke, not knowing what's coming to them. "Well, _friend_ is a… what do you call it in English… a euphemism, no?"

He glances at the translators off to the side, who are listening to him and, in real time, speaking his words into every language imaginable. He's speaking in English, not because it's comfortable but because it'll have the widest reach in the place where it matters most in this world of his. He knows every player and every fan of the Premier League will be watching this, and he doesn't want them to have to rely on unreliable closed captions or faulty translators. He wants them to hear and understand what he has to say in his own voice, accent and all.

"I guess you could call him my roommate, because he was, though that's usually a euphemism too. But it's true in this case. We were roommates before we were anything else. Teammates first and foremost. And then we were something more, and I've always regretted lying about that something more. I've regretted lying about what it was and who I am, every day since I was nineteen years old."

He pauses for breath. His heart is beating too fast but he doesn't know how to slow it down. He waits for someone to intervene—to yell, to pull the cameras away, to stop him. But no one speaks. No one moves. And no one tries to stop him. So he charges ahead, louder than before. He's getting a rhythm now, and the words are coming to him almost faster than he can speak them aloud.

"I will be frank. Lying about who I am is what got me here. It's what brought me out of the youth leagues to the Bundesliga, and to the Olympic team, and eventually to the Swiss National Team that won for you today. Lying gave me a career in the only profession I've ever known, and I am grateful. But while it has given me everything where football is concerned, it has taken all the rest. It has destroyed any semblance of a life I could've had outside of the sport. It has ruined my friendships and harmed my relationship with my family and completely prohibited any chance of letting me love someone the way everyone else in the world is allowed to.

"So today—" He pauses to clear his throat, to sit up straighter in his chair. He folds his hands tight together so they won't shake. He wants this next moment to be perfect. "Today, I would like to be honest with you. Today, I scored the winning goal in the World Cup final. And when I scored that goal, as I do when I score every goal, I thought of Leon. Because I fell in love with him when I was nineteen years old, and I've lied about it ever since. To advance my career and to protect myself from humiliation and hate, I've lied. But I'm tired of that now. It's exhausting, living like that.

"I score for him, and I win for him, because he didn't get any of this. He was a better player than me, but he had to quit. He was brave enough back then to come out, and it cost him his career. I was a coward and I stayed silent, and it got me here, to this place. This level. This opportunity to sit in front of you, in front of the whole world, and to try and be brave for once. So here goes: I am a gay man and today I scored the winning goal in the World Cup final. I've been ashamed for a long time, but I'm not anymore. I can't be anymore. I've achieved what I've achieved, and I'm tired of staying silent about what it's cost me."

He expects yelling once he finishes, but there's nothing. There's just an entire room of reporters, staring at him in silence. Even the cameramen are staring, their eyes pulled away from their viewfinders to get a better look at this alien in their midst. Mario has never been in a room full of reporters who have nothing to say before. It's so strange that it makes him crack a smile, though that could just be the adrenaline. His heart is beating so fast he wonders if he should go and see one of the team's medics.

The team.

He glances to either side, taking in the wide eyes of the handful of players chosen to speak beside him: Noah and Matteo and Adrian. He'd forgotten about them while he was talking, but that doesn't mean they disappeared. They're staring at him, just as speechless as the reporters. A few chairs over, his coach is so pale he looks like he may be in danger of collapsing.

Mario realizes, far too late, just how unfair it was for him to drop something like this on them during a live press event. Their recorded faces will be pored over for the next few days, searched carefully for hints of foreknowledge, or disgust, or support. Their inboxes will be deluged with requests for comment. Same goes for his manager, and his agent. His family.

He feels a twinge of guilt for them—but only really for his mother. She doesn't deserve the scrutiny, not when she tried to help him. His father, on the other hand…

Seconds are ticking by. Still, the world is silent around him. He doesn't know what he was expecting. A screaming, hate-filled crowd? A cheering, loving one? They give him nothing, only disbelieving stares. He is too strange a reality to comprehend. So, before anyone can manage to open their mouth and string together a follow-up, he says a quick thank-you into the mic and then gets to his feet and exits out the back.

No one stops him. He passes teammates in the hall, still celebrating, and a few cheer him as he rushes by, spraying him with champagne, clearly not having been watching the conference. He smiles back at them, slapping backs and palms and taking in this last moment of normalcy before it all comes crashing down.

Because it will crash. If Leon taught him anything, it's that you can't have things both ways. Either you get to live your dream, or you get to live your truth.

They'll cut him from the team. He's certain of it. They'll make up some excuse, lack of team cohesion or dearth of salary funds, but everyone will know the truth. Even he isn't good enough with the football to stand up to institutionalized homophobia or fears of lost revenue.

He pushes open the back door of the stadium, finds his driver waiting for him, and realizes as he yanks the SUV's door shut behind him that he doesn't care if they fire him. He doesn't, not anymore. He's won the World Cup. He's won an Olympic gold. He's one of the best in the world, and they may be able to blacklist him but they'll never take those facts away. He'll have been a closeted gay man when he won those trophies, but he still fucking won them.

As the car pulls away and merges onto the highway, speeding away from Berlin and home towards Munich, he finally recognizes what it is he's feeling. It's something he hasn't felt in years. Maybe something he's never felt in his entire life.

He feels untouchable. He feels _free_.

That night when he goes to bed, he sleeps dreamlessly, and unaided, for the first time in over a decade.

* * *

He wakes late the next day. He doesn't look at his phone or his email or the news. He eats a banana, and he does the post-match recovery routine the team trainers assigned. He doesn't go outside, though when curiosity gets the better of him, he does peek around the closed blinds.

There's a crowd so big that they had to block off the entire road to accommodate it.

It makes him smile for some reason—at least they aren't ignoring him. He spends the rest of the day in his apartment, eating leftovers and making plans.

Unlike many players who rise quickly to prominence, Mario hasn't blown his salary, or his bonuses. He saved and he invested, partly because it was the smart thing to do, and partly because he always expected the dream to be cut short somehow. He knew he'd need more than a little something to live on, and he has it. They could fire him tomorrow, and he'd still have enough money to live well for a few years while he figures out his next move.

It's late by the time he finishes. Nearing on midnight. Before he shuffles off to bed, he chances a look out the window again. There are still a few dozen intrepid reporters out there. He wishes he could tell them it's a fool's errand to stay around and wait for him to sneak out. He's got nowhere to go.

* * *

That night, for the first time since the press conference, he actively allows himself to think about Leon. He wonders if he's heard by now, and he hopes, far too belatedly, that the press aren't hounding him too bad.

He tries to picture what Leon might look like now. Ten years older than he last saw him… Will his hair be longer? Shorter? Will he have a beard? He'd look strange with a beard, Mario thinks. Unbidden, his mind conjures up the feel of it scratching against his skin, and Mario reconsiders his preference with a shudder. He rolls over onto his stomach, pushing the thought away.

He wonders instead if Leon still plays. Maybe for a casual neighborhood team, or even just a few shots in the backyard now and then. Mario doesn't know what's worse: thinking of Leon playing so far below his capacity, or thinking of Leon not playing at all.

* * *

By seven the next morning, he finally turns on his phone. It rings immediately. He silences it, but keeps it on. For a while, he sits on the couch and watches the calls pour in and die away, replaced by a new caller each time. His inbox is too full for any new voicemails, and the list of texts waiting for his attention is in the hundreds. It's too much at once, so he turns over his phone to hide the incessant notifications and reaches for his laptop.

He only has time to see that the bold number beside his email inbox is well into the thousands before bravery deserts him and he slams his laptop shut. He barely holds back from throwing it against the wall just to get it away from him.

It takes him many manic minutes to be able to open it again. At first, he just scans through the subject lines, too scared to click on any of the messages. He expects most of them to be requests for comment, and the rest to be fuck-yous, death threats, or perhaps two-for-ones.

He's right on both counts. But then something strange happens.

The first one he notices is titled simply _Thank you._

Heart pounding, he clicks on the message. It expands, and he's so anxious that for a moment he can't focus. He can't read. And then two lines make themselves clear:

_Thank you for saying what you did. I always thought I was the only one at the professional level._

Mario swallows down the lump—of fear? of hope?—rising in his throat and reads the message again. And again. Finally, he manages to lift his eyes up, searching for the name of the sender. It's no one—the address is just a random collection of letters and numbers, and though Mario's heart sinks at the anonymity, it rises once more when he reads the message again. Without even thinking about it, his fingers hit the hotkeys, and a second later, the message comes churning out of his printer. Fresh and warm and true.

He wants to pick up the paper and hug it to his chest; instead, he leaves it where it is and hunts for more.

He doesn't know how so many people got his email. Perhaps it was leaked, in the circus that must have followed his confession on TV. Mario doesn't care, really, not in the scheme of things. Emails he can handle.

He does does a search for the term _fag_ , and deletes every email that pops up in the results. That lowers his inbox count by a few thousand, which feels like progress. But there's still thousands to go. Next he searches for _die_ and _kill_ and gets rid of nearly a thousand more. He isolates another few hundred by searching for _comment_ and depositing them in a folder labeled _Press_. It's a highly imperfect system, he knows, but at least it's a start.

He spends a few hours paging through the rest, trying to clear out what emails he can. He purposefully saves the nice-seeming ones unopened. He knows he'll need a pick-me-up sooner or later, and he wants them all to stay fresh.

Sorting through his email takes him well past noon, and by the time the sun goes down he still hasn't finished. But he's made a dent. He cooks himself dinner, has a couple beers, and eventually he faces what he's been avoiding all day: his phone.

He takes it with him into bed, along with the rest of the six-pack. This will have to be a team effort, he knows.

He doesn't bother with the voicemails for now. Deleting those will only free up space for others. He focuses on the text messages, scrolling all the way down to the very first new message.

It's from Jonas Bach, and Mario frowns at the name, surprised it's still in his contacts. The last time he saw Jonas was when they played for YB; strange he should be the first one to message him. Stranger still that he's not openly crowing that he knew all along Mario was a goddamn faggot, just like Leon.

_Quite a show you put on. At least you went out on top._

Mario stares at the message, trying to parse if he's supposed to be reading some kind of double entendre into it.

Eventually he gives up, moving on to the next. Even being able to do that is a relief—he can still remember the days when what Jonas and the others thought of him meant life or death for his career. Now he just swipes Jonas's opinion aside like it's nothing, because it _is_ nothing.

The next message is from a reporter, and so are the next thirty after that. Eventually he gets to what he really wanted: his team. Most of them were all too busy celebrating, or handling the press after the bomb he dropped, and so their messages come in later than most. But they're there.

He sees Matteo's text first. Matteo, who he left sitting at that press conference looking like a total imbecile. Matteo, who scored first in that game and deserved his own moment of undiluted glory with the press. Matteo, who Mario screwed over in front of the entire globe.

Matteo wrote, _You could've at least warned us first, asshole._

And then, a minute later: _Anyone fucks with you, I'll fuck them up._

Tears come to his eyes so fast Mario blinks and they're falling. He doesn't know what's happening—perhaps it's just shock—but he stares at that little message and it's everything to him. Matteo isn't even his closest friend on the team, and here he is, offering support. No one told him to do that. No one expected it. But he did it anyway.

He scrolls to the next. Noah.

_Kind of a big secret to keep to yourself all this time. Hope we weren't dicks during the tournament, and sorry if we were. Here if you need a chat._

Then there's Lucas and Alex and Julien and Joël, all offering various levels of support and outrage on his behalf. Adrian's text actually gets a laugh out of him: _Want me to release a sex tape to distract the press? No answer needed, I'm on it. Mia's always complaining I'm not famous enough. This'll show her._

It gives him the strength to look at the others—the messages that really matter, from his teammates at Bayern. Most of them went to the German national team when the tournament started, and he hasn't spoken to them beyond casual check-ups in a while. He sees Max's text first.

_I wouldn't have believed it if you weren't the one saying it. Still having trouble believing it._

Mario swallows, and carefully scrolls up to the next. Hugo.

_You always did seem a bit funny with the ladies. Thanks for never being funny with us, I guess?_

He scrolls past the next four without even reading them, but then Luis's name catches his eye and his fingers stutter to a stop. If there's one person he's been avoiding more than all the others, it's Luis. Luis, who played with him at Bayern before they both got called up to the Swiss national team. Luis, who he was always closest with, close in a way he hadn't let himself be with teammates since YB. Luis, who sometimes reminded Mario of Leon in familiar and scary ways.

_I had no idea. Should I have known? The press was asking me all sorts of things—I didn't say anything—but I felt stupid not having a single answer to their questions. You're my best friend and I didn't have a clue you were dealing with this. How could I not pick up on something like this?_

A minute later: _It doesn't change anything. You're still my best friend. I hope I'm still yours. If you need anything, I've got your back. No matter what. Fuck all those assholes._

He stares at the message until the screen dims and then finally shuts off. He swipes it open again, and smiles at the message. If it weren't one in the morning, he might've called Luis to say thank you. But it's late. And he knows he has other messages to get through.

He scrolls through the rest, trying not to let the little number get to him. He didn't expect all his teammates to support him, but to not hear from half of the team at all? That's a sign. It'll be different now, he knows. This isn't like in the youth leagues. They won't be stuffing gay porn in his locker or hiding dildos in his kit. They'll just stay silent and avoid him, or worse, make loaded comments on background, and that'll be enough of an indicator of how they feel. Enough of a sign that he should get the fuck out.

The worst—worse than all the mean messages, worse than all the missing messages—is what his Bayern coach sends him.

_The board has set a meeting._

The message is followed by a time and a reference to the club offices, and Mario feels his stomach sink and kindle with rage all at once. He knows what this is. He clutches his phone in his hand, too furious to type. He knows what this meeting will be, and he hates them for doing this to him. For not giving him time, or a chance to prove himself. He goes through the other messages again, desperate for a distraction, for a rewrite.

His eyes hurt from the strain by the time he finally opens his mother's message. Like the anonymous, supportive emails, he's purposefully saved her message for the very end. He stares at the preview, lingering on the few words he can see, savoring this moment of anticipating her reaction, one he knows for certain will not harm him. Finally, he clicks the message open, and his eyes scan hungrily, desperate for the love she has always given him unconditionally.

_I am so proud of you. I don't have the words to tell you how proud you make me, Mario. I love you more than anything else in this world. You are so brave. So, so brave._

There's a break, and the message continues the next morning:

_If you need to come home, I am here for you. And if you want me to be with you, I will get on a plane. I know you need time, I know you need space, but please let me know you're okay._

Another day passes, and then, from earlier today:

_You're scaring me. We don't have to talk. Please just tell me you're okay. Please._

He stares at the message, his guts roiling with shame. She hadn't expected him to kill himself, had she? He taps her icon, no longer caring that it's the middle of the night. Why did he save her message for last like this? Why did he extend her torture when all she's ever done is look after him?

She answers on the first ring.

"Ma? Are you there? It's me. I'm okay. I'm fine."

"Oh, _baby_."

She's sobbing then, and so is he. He wishes so badly she were here to hold him. He wishes he could feel her arms wrapped tight around him and the wisp of her breath when she promises him everything will be okay. He misses Switzerland more now than he has in years.

Eventually they pull themselves together. There's sniffles and hiccups and a laugh or two. She makes him promise again and again that he's okay. And then she asks what made him do it.

"I don't know," he admits. "I just… I had to. I couldn't take it anymore. I couldn't keep living like that, lying all the time."

She asks a few more questions, simple ones, and he answers them. She doesn't ask if the club has contacted him and he doesn't offer any information. Eventually the questions peter out. For a few seconds, they just wait there, on the line. And then she takes a breath, and he can tell from the way she's hesitating that this next question is the one she's wanted to ask all along.

"Have you heard from him at all? Leon?"

Mario closes his eyes. Why did he not see this coming?

"No," he admits, feeling a twist of humiliation. He hadn't expected to hear from Leon—at least not this soon—but saying it aloud sounds tragic. He hadn't meant for that whole press conference to be about Leon, and it wasn't, at least not to Mario, but he realizes now how it must have appeared: a tortured cry for help, a desperate plea for love. Pathetic.

"It wasn't… I wasn't expecting him to say anything. I didn't do it for him."

"Of course, honey," she whispers. She sounds so pitying that he wants to crawl under the covers and disappear.

"How's Dad?" Mario asks quickly, wanting the subject changed and knowing there's no coming back from this topic.

He hears his mother sigh on the other side of the phone. "He's gone to the summer cottage," she says, which Mario takes for what it is: he's gone into hiding. Perhaps Mario has a bit more in common with his father than he'd like to admit.

"Are you okay by yourself?" Mario asks, thinking of the hordes of press outside his apartment, and knowing she must be dealing with something similar. "Are the reporters bothering you?"

"It makes it hard to go grocery shopping," his mother admits with a weak laugh, "but I'm managing." She pauses, and he waits for what he knows will come: "What do you want me to say to them, Mario? I've been strictly no comment so far, because we hadn't had a chance to talk, but… Tell me if there's something you want me to say. Or something you don't want me to say. You know I know how to play the game."

Mario smiles a little, closing his eyes. His mother _does_ know how to play things. She's always been the most suave, most pragmatic of his parents. She knows how to say just the right thing at the right time.

But he doesn't need that now. He's ruined his own future—she doesn't need to be careful in order to slow the fall. It will happen with or without her, and she shouldn't have to worry about it.

"Just say the truth, Mama," he tells her. "Say whatever you want, so long as it's the truth. That was the point of all this: no more hiding. No more sidestepping leading questions."

"And your father?"

"Tell the truth about him too. Shit, I don't care. No reason to keep his reputation sterling anymore, is there?"

His mother murmurs a soft admonishment, and he bites his tongue so they won't have this fight again.

"Thank you for reaching out, Mama," he whispers instead. "It means a lot to me."

"Of course. Mario, of course. You know I'm always here for you. I love you. No matter what."

They stay on the phone, lingering for another hour or so talking about every mundane thing they can think of until they each start to doze off. Mario doesn't want to say goodbye, but eventually he manages it. If he needs her, he knows he can always call.

* * *

The emails continue to come in. The comments. The confessions.

_I've watched your press conference more times than I can count. I've practiced my own speech. I just don't know if I can get there. How'd you do it?_

_We're all cheering for you. I know we might be silent, but we're here. We're watching and we're hoping and we wish we could all be like you._

_I sent my boyfriend the video of you. He plays football like you. He wouldn't want me to say where, or how high up, but I want you to know he watched it, and after he told me he loved me. He told me he'd try to be more open about it. And you're the reason why. So thank you._

The messages come from all over—from professional players and casual players and people totally uninvolved in the sport. From Europe and Asia and Africa and South America. There are so many people in so many places reaching out to him that Mario eventually loses count. Loses perspective. It seems like everyone in the world has contacted him. Everyone except one person.

He isn't stupid. He doesn't live in a fairytale, or a romantic comedy. He knows that just because he came out, it doesn't mean Leon's going to seek him out and profess his love on a crowded street or in a busy airport. The real world doesn't work like that.

And yet, still… Part of him did hope his coming out would change things.

Leon might not be in the professional leagues anymore, but surely he follows the news. And Mario's confession? It made more than national news. More than just sports news. His little speech was played, printed, and shared via just about every news outlet there is, in so many countries that he doubts he could find them all on a map.

He basks in the truth for a while, in the freedom it gives him, until he realizes that it has become its own kind of cage. Yes, it made him free. But it made him lonely too.

There are more men coming on to him now than he could ever believe was possible before, and that is the problem. He knows half of them are only doing it to say they've done it, while most of the rest are just angling for a story to sell to the papers. Maybe a small fraction actually want him for him.

But he doesn't want any of them.

* * *

They drop him from the team. Quietly, of course. They call him in and they hem and haw, but eventually they get around to it.

 _Surely you understand our position,_ they tell him. _In this environment, with the media the way it is…_

They trail off and wait for him. He's supposed to nod, he's supposed to say _Of course I understand_ , he's supposed to slink out the back like a beaten dog.

He does not. He sits and he stares at the men arrayed around the table.

"I don't understand, actually," he begins, his German slow and exacting. "And I would like you to explain. Are you firing me because I'm underperforming? I did just win a world cup, in case you've forgotten."

The men glance at each other. His coach calls his name, voice rising in indignation, but an arm is placed on his shoulder and he quiets.

"No," a man down the table Mario doesn't recognize tells him. "You are not underperforming. Not exactly."

He raises his eyebrows. "Not exactly?"

"Mario," his coach barks. "You know what this is about. Don't act like you don't."

"I would like to be clear on the facts," Mario continues, as if he hadn't been interrupted, "so that when the press asks what happened, I can tell them." He takes his time with his threat, looking each man in the eye, though most avoid his gaze. "You're firing me because I'm gay. That is correct, yes?"

No one speaks for a long time.

Then, finally, the man at the head of the table stands up. He looks Mario right in the face, and he says, "We are firing you because you have failed to meet the moral standards of the club."

"Ah." Mario's lips twitch. He'd been expecting this. He knew what that morality clause meant when he signed with the team. He just never thought, back then, that he'd ever try to break it. "So me being a gay man is an affront to your morals?"

"To me personally? No, it is not. To this club and its many stakeholders? Yes. Yes, it is."

"That dichotomy doesn't trouble you?"

"I don't imagine I need to lecture you on the ability of a person to hold conflicting ideas unscathed within their mind."

Mario smiles briefly. The man's got him there, he has to admit.

When they all stand to close business, he holds out his hand and waits until every man who made the decision to fire him shakes it. Their grips are weak, but he doesn't feel powerful crushing their hands with his. He just feels sad.

He expected this. He planned for it. But that doesn't make the reality of it any easier to swallow.

He ignores the calls of sympathy that come his way once the news breaks. He ignores the petitions calling for him to be reinstated, and the protestors wearing his jersey at matches. The only thing worse than feeling bad for himself is listening to others feel bad for him. He can't take it, so he retreats. He ignores the calls from his national team friends, and his old Bayern teammates. He even ignores Luis. While they all get to continue on with their professional lives, he finds himself an empty pitch in his neighborhood and he practices. He runs. He lifts weights. He keeps himself in shape. He refuses to let it all grind him down and take away the one thing he's good at, the one thing he sacrificed everything for.

He hears nothing for months. He has no offers, he gets no feelers. Nothing. For months and months and months.

And then, out of nowhere, he gets a call.

England, of all places, wants him.

"Is this a joke?" He holds his breath, straining to hear muffled laughter in the background of the call. But it's silent.

"No joke, Mario. We would really like to meet with you and discuss options in person. We'll provide airfare and a hotel; you just need to let us know when you can visit."

 _I can hop on a plane now,_ he thinks, but keeps his mouth shut. They already know he's desperate; he doesn't need to prove it.

"Maybe next week?" he says instead. "I have a few things I need to clear up here."

Next week it is. They fly him first class to Heathrow, and pick him up in a town car. He has a hard time enjoying the extravagance he's spent his entire life dreaming of—he's too scared he'll ruin this, too scared he'll find out that it was all just some kind of sick prank.

It isn't a sick prank.

The team manager, who he spoke with on the phone, meets him in his office. When they shake hands, his grip is firm. He starts to ask how Mario's trip was, but Mario refuses pleasantries. He asks for specifications and is handed a contract, already made up.

He stares at it, trying to keep his hands from shaking. His thumb touches the seal embossed in the top corner, rubbing back and forth, back and forth. He reads. He reads and reads. He is surprised by the rate they offer him. It's barely better than what he'd been playing for in Munich, but then, it's miles better than what he's earning now, which is zero. He glances through the paperwork, searching out a morality clause. Apart from a prohibition on any kind of criminal activity, and listing penalties for assault, domestic violence, and rape, there is nothing in print that dictates his life off the pitch. Eventually, after re-reading it all again, he looks back up.

"Is this a stunt?"

The man smiles. "You saw our terms. Do you think we'd waste that much money on a stunt?"

"No, but you still haven't explained why you want a liability such as me on your team."

"Liability." The man says the word slowly. "Is that what Switzerland told you you were? What Germany told you you were? You aren't a liability to us. You're one of the best players in the world, and we want the best players in the world. We _need_ them to stay competitive."

"I'm attracted to men. You don't think that will make the locker room difficult?"

"It's only difficult for insecure men."

"Yes, exactly."

It takes the man a second to understand the jab, but eventually he concedes with a wry smile.

"You're smart to be apprehensive. I would be, in your place. I'm not going to say it's going to be easy for you, but to be quite honest… People will become bored of you soon. The world will move on. Every sport has its gay players, and sooner or later somebody else will come out and steal your spotlight. And then another and another until it isn't news anymore." He pauses. "That's the way it should be, right? The way you want it to be?"

Mario nods, though he cannot imagine a future like that.

"Your league isn't very well known for being accepting to outsiders."

"I won't argue that. But we are well known for embracing any player who can perform. There will always be outliers: racists, homophobes, xenophobes, you name it. But the majority will get behind you if you can deliver during a season like you did at the World Cup."

"Has the team been notified that you're reaching out to me?"

"They're aware that we're pursuing outside options. There are not many world-class athletes up for grabs right now. I'm sure they've deduced you're on the list."

"And how do they feel about it?"

"The forwards are hostile, but that's to be expected. You'd be taking one of their spots. Most of the others range from indifferent to excited. You had a good showing in that final, and they're looking forward to playing with you."

"And the others? The ones who want nothing to do with me? Will they quit to avoid having to play with a fag?"

The man doesn't affect a flinch at the slur. Mario appreciates that.

"To be honest, if they're willing to go to those lengths, I don't want them on my team anyway. As you pointed out, our league doesn't have the best reputation when it comes to accepting those who are different from us. I would like to change that, and I would like to start with you. Who gives a damn who you go to bed with? Your performance should speak for itself, just like everyone else's does. That's what sport is about."

Mario flashes a smile despite himself. That speech was a practiced little bit of pathos, but still. It was the same point Mario had tried to make at the press conference. Instead, the press had run with the unrequited love story.

He glances back at the paperwork in front of him. He knows the figure already, but he turns the pages to find it in print just to give himself a moment. Once he does so, he clears his throat. Taps his fingertips against the papers.

"I imagine there isn't much flexibility in the salary offered?"

The man behind the desk smiles. "You asked before why I wanted a liability such as you. To be crass, I want you because you're world class, and because you're radioactive. Nobody else wants you, and you're dying to play, so I can get you for cheap."

Mario nods slowly. He'd expected as much. But it was nice to hear it aloud, without pretense. "I take it I'll be here on a trial basis?"

"You'll start only when you're deemed fit to start. No guarantees. And I imagine you will work doubly hard to prove yourself. You'll notice that contract is only for one season. We can renegotiate, and you can get a better deal. But only if you earn it. If you don't, you can go back to the Bundesliga."

Mario closes his eyes, refusing to contemplate that. He can't go back. He knows they won't take him. Not now, and likely not ever, not after the way he left things.

"May I ask… Is there anything keeping you in Germany now?"

Mario stares at the man, trying to gauge exactly which knife he's trying to twist: his nonexistent career or his nonexistent love life.

"Nothing's keeping me in Germany except the beer, sir."

"Luckily, we import." The man smiles, reaching forward to collect the contract. He slots it away in its personalized manila folder. Then he faces Mario again. "You don't need to decide now. We've booked your hotel for the week. Take some walks around the city, sleep on it for a few nights… We'll need an answer by the end of the day on Friday."

Mario nods, getting to his feet. They shake hands on the way out casually, as if they don't both know the decision was made the moment Mario got the call.

* * *

He does as bid, and spends the rest of the week wandering around London. He goes to museums and parks and restaurants. He gets spotted sometimes, and yelled at or smiled at, so mostly he walks around with a hoodie and a cap on. He wishes it were bright enough for sunglasses, though he knows this is part of it: he wanted to come out so people would know who he is. Now that they know, he can't be angry that they recognize him.

But he's still a little angry.

Angry enough that when, on his last night in the city, a man shoulders past him so roughly that he swears out loud, not bothering to lower his voice as he snaps in German, _Watch it, asshole._

The man stops so abruptly that Mario nearly runs into him, and instinctively he starts to panic. German isn't such a foreign language here; anyone might be able to understand him and he should be smarter about using it. Smarter at night, on strange streets, famous and alone like he is now. People like him get killed in situations like this.

The man starts to turn around, and Mario is already readying himself to run, his feet itching to sidestep, when he catches a glimpse of a face and everything freezes.

He's clean-shaven, just like Mario remembers. His hair is shorter on the sides, shaved close to his head, but full and wavy and gorgeous on top. He doesn't have the earrings anymore. There are more lines on his face, and the skin below his eyes is dark, but he looks good. He looks beautiful. It's unfair how beautiful he looks, standing there on the street, with the light rain dripping down his face like some kind of delusion made specifically for Mario.

Briefly, he recalls the last question from the manager— _Is there anything keeping you in Germany?—_ and he wonders if this is all somehow part of the package. Could they have staged this? Found Leon somehow, and convinced him to be on this street corner at this exact time? How would they have known he—

"What the hell are you doing here?"

Leon's startled voice cuts through Mario's thoughts, and all at once, he knows this wasn't planned. Leon sounds too angry, and too scared, for this to have been on his agenda. This was chance—pure, wild, lucky chance. Mario opens his mouth to answer, but instead another question comes out. He can't stop staring at Leon, and he's starving for details to explain his existence.

"Do you live here now?" Mario asks. "Since when?" It's so strange to see him here. Whenever Mario had pictured Leon, it was in Germany. Berlin, Munich, Hamburg, Dortmund—never a specific city, but always Germany. It's jarring to see him in England, of all places, after never once seeing Leon in his own home country.

"I moved three years ago. It became too claustrophobic there," Leon explains.

"Oh. Well—"

"You really fucked me with that confession of yours. You know that?"

Mario opens his mouth to speak but finds he has nothing to say.

"My boyfriend broke up with me. He couldn't handle the press. All they ever wanted to ask me about was you. What it was like when we were kids, if I regretted quitting to be out, why I didn't go and run to you after you'd declared your undying love for me in front of the entire world…"

Leon snorts, and Mario tries to smile and fails, because he's wondered those exact same things more times than he can count.

"I didn't want him to leave," Leon says quietly, his shoulders hunching. "We were good together. We were thinking of getting a flat together. We were in the middle of looking at places when that damn press panel happened."

"I'm sorry," Mario replies without thinking. Is he sorry? He hardly knows Leon anymore. They haven't talked in over ten years.

"Don't tell me you're sorry. I don't want to hear it. That's twice now you've ruined my life. Twice!"

"I…" Mario bites his tongue to curb the apology. "Okay. You're right."

"I _am_ right!" Leon shouts back, and a couple passing on the opposite side of the street turns to stare at them. Leon turns his face away from them, and from Mario, dragging a rough hand through his hair as he does so. He's quieter when he next speaks. "I don't need this, okay? Whatever you're doing, hunting me down like this, I don't want—"

"I'm not hunting you down," Mario interrupts. Leon scoffs, but Mario steps closer, shaking his head. "I mean it. I'm not here for you. I'm here because—" He breaks off, realizing too late that he doesn't have leave to talk about the offer. Even mentioning it in public could get it revoked before things are finalized.

"You're here because what?" Leon presses. "Give me a reason. Because right now it just looks like stalking. And I've had enough of that from the press, all right, more than enough. I don't need anymore goddamn reminders of you."

"I know," Mario murmurs. "I'm… I wish it wasn't like that for you. I didn't mean for them to go after you."

"Well, then you should've thought about that before you told the entire globe you were in love with me."

Mario tries to reach for him—a long-buried instinct rising to the fore—but Leon turns away before he could get close enough. He walks a few paces away, and Mario feels something old and delicate crack inside of him. He didn't realize he'd been holding onto that tiny bit of hope, all these years.

But then Leon stops. He turns and looks back, the way he never did the first time he left.

"You said that when you score you think of me, every time. Is that actually true, or were you just being poetic?"

"It's true," Mario answers. "I always think of you. I think…"

"What?"

Mario scratches the back of his neck, biding for time. He doesn't know what it is about Leon that always pushes him to do better. But he gives in like usual, and tells the truth: "I think maybe that's why I tried so hard when I was coming up, after you left. Why I never stopped reaching. Because getting better meant scoring and scoring meant remembering you. I could never forget you, no matter how hard I tried."

"You think I _forgot_ you?"

There's an edge of bitterness in Leon's voice, sharpening for a fight. Mario doesn't rise to it. He doesn't want to fight with Leon anymore. They haven't spoken in ages, but he feels like he's been fighting with Leon every day in his head since Leon walked out of that door a decade ago.

"I think you lived a life," Mario replies quietly. "You found a way to be happy in your own skin, with your own heart. I could never do that."

Leon shakes his head. "You don't get it, do you? You think you're the only one who was tortured after it ended between us. I was _haunted_ by you, Mario. I compared everyone to you. Every man I dated, every one I so much as glanced at twice while passing on the street, I compared to you." He exhales in disbelief, turning away only to turn back just as fast, his eyes fierce as they lock on to Mario's. "You were always the bar all the others had to meet. You have to know that."

Mario swallows, searching for words. What is he supposed to say to that? How is he supposed to have gleaned any of that, after the way Leon left and never came back, never contacted him again? He crossed international borders just to get away from Mario.

"Look," he tries to say, but Leon cuts him off with a shake of his head.

"We don't need to discuss it. It's been a long time, and there's no point…" He sighs, tilting his head back to the sky. Mario watches, entranced, as the rain falls on him and drips down, down, down. He imagines it sinking into Leon's clothes, and sliding against his smooth skin. Mario is so lost in the dream that he doesn't quite hear when Leon starts talking again. He has to ask him to repeat it, and Leon's face twists.

"I said—I need you to walk away now," he whispers. "Please, Mario."

"Why?"

"Because I don't think I can do it again myself."

"Who says you have to do it again? We could…" He searches for a solution, but there's nothing there. He's imagined this moment a thousand different times over the past ten years, and yet his mind is suddenly empty of the memorized script. In all those dreams, how did he convince Leon to stay? In all those fantasies, what were the words that got through to him, and brought him back?

Leon is waiting, but he won't be waiting for long. So Mario says the first thing that comes to mind.

"I was going to get a drink. You could join me?"

Leon frowns, his eyes narrowed. "Are you actually asking me out right now?"

Even just that question has Mario's heart beating faster. After ten years, why does he still react like this? Why does he still hope like this?

"I'm asking if I can buy you a drink," he reiterates, wishing he sounded cool and calm and not desperately grasping at straws like he knows he is.

Leon is silent for a while, just staring, as if doing so will make Mario break. But he's well-versed in the power of silence. He knows how to wield it to get what he wants.

"What the hell," Leon says finally, shrugging so casually it makes Mario want to cry. "Sure."

It won't be the same. They're not nineteen anymore. They've become bitter in their own ways, jaded and sour at not having what the other's had, or not enough of what they think they deserve. But maybe they can still try, despite it all. Maybe they can have one drink, and see if there's anything left.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> I saw this movie a few months ago and absolutely loved it. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since. Though I thought the film’s ending was fitting, it made me want to explore how things might look if a player like Mario was able to come out on his own terms, at the height of his power. I hope I did these two justice. Please let me know your thoughts in a review below. :)


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